


No Dark Sarcasm in the Classroom

by Ange_de_la_Mort



Category: Thor (2011) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Spanking, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-20
Updated: 2012-09-20
Packaged: 2017-11-14 16:54:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ange_de_la_Mort/pseuds/Ange_de_la_Mort
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The disadvantages of going to a fairly religious boarding school were as numerous as they were obvious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Dark Sarcasm in the Classroom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SilverLynxx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverLynxx/gifts).



The disadvantages of going to a fairly religious boarding school were as numerous as they were obvious. No girls at all. Strict rules. Even stricter teachers. No fun, no booze, no games. Sigh. Though it would be a lie to say there were no advantages at all. Thomas learned a lot of things about history and music and the fine arts. He had mastered Latin and Greek and had started to take a peek at acting.  
  
Thomas had also learned a lot about himself. About shameful desires and urges one shouldn't have. Not if one wanted to be a presentable part of society. But however hard Thomas tried to suppress his impure thoughts, he could not control his dreams. Dreams that consisted of strong, large hands; gripping, groping, holding him in place. Long fingers leaving marks on his body, his flesh and soul and every fiber of his being. Blue eyes burning into his very core, seeing every sinful wish he's ever had. A smirk on thin lips as fingers curled, touching his most intimate places, making him beg for sin and salvation alike.  
  
Needless to say that he often awoke with dirtied sheets and a guilty conscience. And he didn't exactly feel better when - one day - he was called to one of his teacher's office.  
  
-  
  
"Please come in," Christopher Hemsworth said with a slight smile after he'd opened the door to his office, revealing the slender frame of his normally very favourite student. Thomas complied, flinching a little when the door was closed behind him. "Take a seat." Chris gestured towards the chair in front of his large mahogany desk, then sat down himself, looking the boy up and down. Guilt was written accross his features as he did as told, and Chris noticed he was fidgeting his hands, never looking up.  
  
"You wanted to see me, Sir?" he asked uncertainly, and Chris smiled again.  
  
"Do you know why you're here, Thomas?"  
  
The boy hesitated, bit his lower lip. He looked around anxiously, long fingers fidgeting, blueish-green eyes wide with uncertainty. If it hadn't been such a severe situation, Chris would have felt pity for him. Thomas kept silent for another moment, then the words burst out of his mouth quickly and ruefully: "I-if this is about the gym, please consider that nobody actually got  _hurt_. And Dr. Renner said that Evans' eyebrows will grow back. ... eventually."  
  
He wanted to say more, but Chris held up a hand. "Still, you have to be disciplined for applying a flammable substance to the sports equipment. Also, this is only one of the two misdeeds you've commited."  
  
"Two?" Thomas whispered, looking like all the weight in the world was put upon his shoulders. "But I -"  
  
"One thing after another, boy."  
  
He flinched and lowered his gaze. "Of course, Sir."  
  
"Now, what to do with you?" Chris tapped the side of his nose with his index finger, looking at the boy with half-closed eyes. Of course he already knew what he had to do, wanted to do, _needed_ to do. He just enjoyed watching Thomas squirm in his seat a little longer. "You have a choice in this matter, Thomas. Either we go to Principal Branagh, who will reprimand you, or we try to find a solution to this dilemma by ourselves. Which do you prefer?"  
  
This time, there was no hesitation. "You, Sir."  
  
He leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. "Then I will choose your punishment. If you behave like a silly little boy, you deserve to be treated like one. You will have to be spanked. Twenty strokes, I think, should be sufficient. You may choose again, Thomas: Do you prefer the cane or my hand?"  
  
The boy shivered, swallowed audibly. He parted his lips, wetting them his pink tongue. "I ... " he began, and Chris was fascinated by the way his Adam's apple bobbed up and down when he swallowed again. And then he said: "Your hand, Sir."  
  
"Good boy." Just like he'd hoped. "Get up. Take off your trousers and underwear. Bend over the desk."  
  
He was courteous enough to turn his head away, but watched out of the corners of his eyes as Thomas slowly stood up and unbuttoned his trousers with shaking fingers. He slipped out of trousers and boxer briefs alike, out of his shoes as well. Now, as he stood there only in his black socks and oversized white dress shirt, a shy and humiliated look on his features, he seemed younger than he actually was. He took a deep breath, folded his clothes neatly on the chair and then put his hands flat to the the wooden surface of the desk, his shoulders tense with fear and anticipation.  
  
Chris put a large hand on his back, partially to calm him down and partially to hold him in place for what was going to follow. "You will count out loud. And you will thank me after each stroke." When Thomas nodded, Chris raised a hand, inwardly counting to three - and brought his palm down to the boy's arse with a loud _smack_ , leaving a bright red mark.  
  
To Chris' surprise, Thomas didn't make a single sound. He only flinched and gritted his teeth, licked his lips. "One," he stated as calmly as he could. "Thank you, Sir."  
  
Chris smiled. This would be interesting - and most likely even more promising. Another slap followed. One more. And then more. The noise was loud, like roaring thunder, and Thomas jerked up, only held in place by the broad hand on his back. The eighth stroke left Thomas breathless, the tenth made him whimper. Three more and he was crying out, his body shaking under the steady and merciless abuse, his own fingers gripping the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles turned white.  
  
Chris rubbed his back absent-mindedly, reassuring him that it was over soon, that he was a good boy, a brave boy. It wasn't entirely true, but there was no further need to embarrass or humiliate him. Not now, at least. By the eigthteenth blow, Thomas was sobbing, shaking on his desk. "Nineteen," he whimpered, and Chris didn't have the heart to correct him. Instead, he went on rubbing soothing circles on his back, pausing a moment to let the boy (and his own stinging hand) rest a little. "Only one more. Can you do this, Thomas?"  
  
There was no reaction for what felt like an eternity, and Chris already feared the boy would break down and shake his head, beg him to stop. But he had underestimated the strengh of Thomas' mind and will and soul, for he breathed deeply, tensing up. Then he nodded. "Yes, Sir."  
  
Chris couldn't help but smile, and raised his hand again.  
  
-  
  
The knowledge that his punishment was going to be over soon didn't help at all. In a way, it was even worse. His muscles were taut with anticipation, his breathing laboured and uneven (grimly, he pressed his lips together, forced himself to stop crying - only halfway successible, though; the tears had dried, but he was still shaking with suppressed sobs). Finally - after way too many moments - the final stroke was delivered to his aching backside. He yelled out loud, screwing his eyes shut, digging his fingernails into the solid wood underneath his hands. Fresh tears stung in his eyes, and he blinked them away. "Twenty," he whispered quietly. "Thank you, Sir."  
  
"You understand why you were punished?" Hemsworth's deep voice resonated next to his ear, and Thomas bit his bleeding lip again to refrain from moaning. Instead, he simply nodded. And flinched in surprise when Hemsworth's large hand caressed his arse with fleeting, feather-light touches. A gasp escaped his lips and - to his very own shame - he found himself arching into the touch. His teacher chuckled darkly. "Don't think that we are done yet, boy. This was only the answer to your first deed of misbehaving."  
  
Thomas flinched again, craning his neck to send a wide-eyed, pleading look over his shoulder. "S-sir, please ... I can't ... not again." His voice sounded miserably weak, almost like he was begging and short of crying again. He hated his own weakness, but to be honest, he would do anything and everything to keep his teacher from raising his hand again.  
  
Hemsworth chuckled once more. "I will not spank you again, so stop giving me that look, boy." __  
  
... oh. Thomas relaxed considerably. "... thank you, Sir."  
  
"Don't you want to know what mistake you've done?"  
  
Not particularly, no. Thomas kept silent, closing his eyes again, drawing in a shaky breath. Then he shrugged his shoulders. Suddenly, the hand on his arse was back again, making him shiver with a need, a heat in his belly he hadn't known was possible. Skillful fingers spread his cheeks - _wait, what?_ -, one of them pressing against his entrance. Thomas gasped and bucked his hips involuntarily. "What are you -"  
  
"You have sinned, boy," was whispered in his ear. Hemsworth's broad body covered his own, pinned him to the wooden surface. "You have touched yourself. And not only once."  
  
"N-no, I ... "  
  
"Don't. Deny. It." Every word was emphasized with a bite to his nape. "The evidence is numerous."  
  
His bedsheets. Of course. A sudden cold washed over him like icy water. "Sir, I ... I can explain!"  
  
"I can explain as well," Hemsworth said, still caressing the place where only his own fingers had ever ventured with a fingertip. "Tell me what you know about Hippocrates, boy," he ordered firmly.  
  
" _What_?  
  
"You heard me."  
  
Yes. Of course he'd heard. He'd been listening. He wasn't deaf. But how could Hemsworth expect him to be able to remember even a single word of his dry and boring classes in a situation like this? If he were honest with himself, he'd confess that he could barely remember his own name right now. Now, that his teacher touched him like this, caressed his hurting backside and - oh, Lord - reached between his legs to cup his balls. He whimpered, arching into the touch. "S-sir, I ... "  
  
"You don't know, do you?" When Thomas shook his head, Hemsworth only laughed, free hand sneaking around Thomas' torso to fumble with the buttons of his shirt. "There is an illness called 'Hysteria'. Interestingly, it normally only befalls females ... " His mouth was back on Thomas' ear, whispering. Hot breath tickled his skin. "Maybe I should not call you 'boy' anymore."  
  
Thomas' cheeks were burning with shame and he bit his lower lip again to refrain from groaning as Hemsworth wrapped a hand around his cock. His body was burning with arousal, and he felt dizzy from his need and confusion. A questioning sound escaped his throat, his eyes slid shut on their own. "What are you doing to me?" he asked, gasping, and wondered if all of this was just his imagination, if maybe he was still lying in his bed, dreaming vividly. It sounded only logical, right? He was dreaming of his teacher, phantasizing about all the big and little things he wanted Hemsworth to do to him.  
  
"Get on the desk," came the hoarse reply. "Lie on your back."  
  
That didn't answer his question at all. Still, Thomas complied, crawling onto the desk immediately and carefully to make sure he didn't hurt certain sore parts of his body. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, unevenly, his cock stood red and hard, begging for attention, and when Thomas dared to look down, when his eyes fell on his teacher, when he saw the predatory look on Hemsworth's face - bright blue eyes dark with arousal -, his breath hitched in his throat and he quickly looked away in embarrassment. "I'm sorry, Sir ... "  
  
Hemsworth touched his upper thigh, stroking the delicate flesh tenderly. "It's alright, Thomas. It's not your fault this illness was befallen you. I am here to help you."  
  
"H-help?" he chocked out. "How?"  
  
"Hysteria eats away the female's mind," Hemsworth whispered with a smile, looking at him through lowered lashes. "It makes her unable to think straight - until ... " Thomas gasped as two thumbs spread his hole. "... until she is filled up with seed. I will take this matter in my own hands."  
  
"But ... "  
  
"You are my smartest student. I cannot allow this silly little thing to impare your abilities." He drew his hands back and rounded the desk, rummaged through his drawers. When Thomas craned his neck to get a better look, Hemsworth chuckled and gently ruffled his hair. Then he held up a hand to show him a small flask with a colourless liquid inside. "I have suspected this for a while, so I've taken precautions."  
  
Thomas watched him go around the desk again, watched him open the bottle, watched him coat his fingers with the liquid. Hemsworth urged him to spread his legs a little wider. He did. And held his breath in anticipation, while a small voice in the back of his head started a little mantra of _yes, yes, finally, oh God, yes_. He shut his eyes tightly - and then groaned out loud when two fingers slid inside him. He felt the familiar burn of being stretched, being filled, the wonderful pain he knew would turn into pleasure soon enough. Quickly, he grabbed the backs of his knees to draw his legs close to his chest.  
  
"You've done this before." Hemsworth chuckled when Thomas flinched and shook his head, started to search for excuses, which only made him stumble over his own words as soon as Hemsworth had the glorious idea to move his fingers _just like this_. "Don't try to talk your way out, I've seen right through you."  
  
Thomas gasped and moaned again and again, clenching around these wonderful fingers.  
  
"You aren't as tight as a good little girl should be. That means you've done this before. Isn't it so? You've slid your fingers into your pussy, haven't you, my dirty little girl?"  
  
His eyes shot open and he stared at Hemsworth with bewilderness, his cock twitched at the vulgar language. He thought of denying everything, but simply chose to lower his gaze and obediently nod in shame. "Y-yes, Sir."  
  
"Honest little girl. Good little girl." As a 'reward', the fingers went on moving, curling against that one wonderful spot that made him scream in pleasure, made his cock leak the first few droplets of pre-come. "Oh God!" he exclaimed - and yelped as this earned him a stinging slap to one arsecheek.  
  
"Do not use the Lord's name in vain!" Hemsworth growled and removed his fingers - leaving Thomas empty and begging - to open his own trousers. A smile appeared on his lips, and he chuckled as he tilted his head to one side. "Altough -" He pulled out his own cock - Thomas moaned at the size of it. It was so much bigger, so much better than in his dreams. He could hardly wait for it to fill him out - and rested the tip at Thomas' hole. "- you may start to use _my_ name in vain."  
  
And Thomas did ...  
  
-  
  
When Thomas got to his feet again - exhausted and tired -, Hemsworth was already closing his trousers again. He thought of saying something, thanking him, asking him why he did this to him - not that he wanted to complain, not at all -, but when he tried to speak, he found that only broken sounds came out home his throat.  
  
It still made his teacher turn his head to look at him with a smile. "Get dressed, boy. And then clean yourself up. I don't want you to dirty your sheets again. Understood?"  
  
He nodded, stepped into his trousers and shoes - and shuddered, because whenever he moved, a bit of Hemsworth's seed dribbled out of his arse - and buttoned his shirt. "... thank you, Sir."  
  
Hemsworth made a throwaway gesture. "Have a good day, Thomas," he said, then shot him a stern look. "I do hope we won't ever have a situation like this again."  
  
"I hope so, too, Sir," Thomas lied.  
  
-  
  
Just a day later, Christopher Hemsworth felt the need to roll his eyes. "You know why you're here, this time?"  
  
Thomas lowered his lashes und bit his lower lip, his fingers fidgeting uneasily. But he kept silent, kept his gaze to the floor.  
  
"You are here," Chris said calmly, while slowly coming closer, "because Evans caught you with your pants down. In a very literal way," he added and cupped Thomas' jaw in one large, strong hand, tilting his head upward, forcing him to look Chris in the eye. His mouth twitched a little, not a full smile yet. "Evans told me you were touching yourself. Said you had three fingers up your arse and moaned like the Whore of Babylon." He leaned closer, so close he could feel Thomas' breath on his skin, so close he could see the slight flicker of fear in his eyes. "Tell me, Thomas," he whispered in the boys ear, "did you not learn anything at all yesterday?"  
  
"I ... " Thomas swallowed audibly and, for a second, Chris was mesmerized by the way the boy's Adam's apple moved up and down. "You told me to clean myself up. I didn't know any other way to do this, Sir," Thomas said with large, innocent eyes and a small spark of something entirely not innocent lingering behind all this. "Will you have to punish me again?"  
  
Slowly, Chris let go of him, straightened his back and walked to the door. As his fingers found the cold metal of the key and turned it in its lock, he allowed himself a smile. "I will, boy. And this time, I will personally make sure that you'll get cleaned up afterwards." He cocked his head to one side, motioned for Thomas to strip once again and bend over the table. "This time, I will spread you so wide that I can lick my seed out of your little hole."  
  
When Thomas whimpered and eagerly spread his legs, Chris knew that salvation would never come to some dirty little boys. Not that he minded ...


End file.
